sketchbook stories: the pink bathrobe

winter (w)rites

I’m in my bathrobe—quilted, pink—in the only comfortable chair in the house. Writing a story, in the living room that was once a barn. Before my mother’s second husband painted the ceiling the color of the sky. Before the chair became my mother’s throne. Before I became the mother.

Cedar smoldering in the woodstove. Windowpanes rippled with frost. A mug of Ovaltine on the antique end table, the one with a checkerboard painted on top. Was it Christmas Eve, or was I sick? I can’t be sure.

Memories sputter. Fragrances fade. Bathrobe and chair long gone. The pages turn.

From my mother’s sketchbook, c. 1973

For me, writing isn’t limited to a season or a space. This summer, I’m hopping over to another island for a writing retreat hosted by Sarah Webb, a writer-friend who publishes the wondrous newsletter narrative threads. Join us for 4 days filled with writing, hiking and inspiration. Mashup readers receive a special discount with code MASHUP.